


Choices, Orders, Marks and Stains

by Trojie



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Magic Revealed, Minor Violence, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur follows his father's orders, Merlin takes matters into his own hands, and it doesn't do either of them one bit of good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices, Orders, Marks and Stains

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Каждый сам делает свой выбор](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595006) by [krasnoe_solnishko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krasnoe_solnishko/pseuds/krasnoe_solnishko)



> Dub-con, angst, talk of death, minor violence, initial lack of lubrication. Spoilers up to the end of Season Two. Not a very nice fic, in all honesty, but with a twisted sort of happy ending.
> 
> Beta-read by Ansela.

They're not allowed to.

They're both men. _Merlin's studied anatomy, but he could never forget that anyway. The things about Arthur that make Merlin's blood pound are his shoulders and his hand on a sword, the way Merlin feels about him is painfully, annoyingly masculine._

Arthur is Merlin's master. _Merlin hates to be ordered. But Arthur could ask him for anything._

But they _want_ to. They catch each others' eyes when Merlin helps Arthur into his armour, and have to look away. Sometimes they'll share a joke, or Arthur'll sling an arm around Merlin's shoulder, and it'll be too close.

Sometimes the same _room_ is too close, and those are the nights when Arthur doesn't drink at feasts, walks himself to his chambers, and Merlin goes back to his own room, shuffles just enough clothing out of the way, grinds himself down hard into the straw of his mattress to prevent creaking, and brings himself off as fast and as clinically as he can, because if he lets himself think and wonder and fantasise, it'll go wrong.

He washes Arthur's sheets every few mornings. He counts stains, wonders what Arthur thinks about.

He tries to convince himself it's girls. Arthur thinking about girls, all curves and breasts, warm and wet and willing, the kind of thing a man should think of. The kind of thing Merlin should think of, should enjoy thinking of, instead of deliberately not considering flat muscle and whispers in the dark.

In the banquet hall, Uther gives a speech, all about Arthur's triumphant defeat of an evil sorceror, who Merlin knows damn well was fifteen and terrified, and how they must be ever-vigilant, how they must guard against wickedness and perversion at every corner, and there's this _look_ in Arthur's eye. He wants a way out.

Merlin moves in with the wine jug, pours Arthur a goblet and manages to spill it all over his lap.

'_Mer_lin, you _idiot_,' Arthur snaps, shoving his chair back and grabbing Merlin by the arm, wrenching the jug from his hands. 'Look what you've done!'

'Sorry, sire-'

'I do apologise for my incompetent manservant,' Arthur says to the fine lady who's been seated next to him, and whose skirts were splashed. 'I will have him punished severely, as soon as he fixes this mess he's made,' and with that, Arthur drags Merlin out.

They make it twenty feet down the hallway before Arthur stumbles up against him, but it lasts less than a second before he pushes himself away again, mutters 'Sorry, sorry,' and they move, they march, onwards.

One staircase up, and Merlin's usual erratic stride combined with the fact that Arthur's not yet let go of his wrist means that they collide again, Merlin bumping up against Arthur, and for a second he cradles Arthur's arse up against his groin and they both jerk away like they've been burnt.

They make the rest of their way touching almost constantly, deliberately accidentally, and if Merlin's been called clumsy in the past it's nothing to what he is now, and Arthur's lost his battlefield grace but none of his purpose.

'Clean it up,' Arthur says when they get into his chambers, and he's practically panting. Merlin goes for the wardrobe. 'I said, _clean it up_,' Arthur snaps, stopping Merlin in his tracks, and there _it_ is again, that little sting of wrongness and rightness.

Merlin knows what he wants. He should leave. He should run.

He goes to his knees instead, presses close and feels damp against his cheek, the vapour of the wine, that musty smell of fermentation, the acridity of the wetted dye, the tang of sweat that normally only seeps from Arthur's gambeson and hose, and Merlin has to taste it.

'God, Merlin,' Arthur starts, and his hands find Merlin's hair and hang on.

Merlin mouths and licks and inhales, tastes the smell and tests the feeling of it, and when the cloth rubs too much he lifts his hands - Arthur's fingers tighten - and undoes the ties.

He's done this a hundred, a thousand times, but never from here, and he's drawn this fabric over these thighs before, and he's - he's never done _this_. The wine soaked through, and he licks, licks to clean and to salve-

Arthur shudders and yanks Merlin's hair, drags him away and up and fishes for the fastenings of the trousers. 'No, I- Merlin, I didn't mean-'

'But you want me to.'

'It's not a case of what I want.' Merlin can't help but roll his eyes at Arthur's 'heavy is the head that wears the crown' tone.

'Shall I go, then? _Sire?_' It's a double-edged sword, that word. They both flinch.

'That would probably be for the best.'

'How did it feel?' Merlin asks suddenly, pausing on his way to the door. Anger wells up, because what is this? Because of all the lies he has to carry, suddenly this is the hardest to bear. Because Arthur killed someone today who might as well have been Merlin, and whose blood is on Arthur's hands, washing them magical on the outside like his own blood washes him magical on the inside.

Because he doesn't even know what the question was supposed to be anyway, he asks another. 'Do they feel different when they die?'

_They_. Don't identify, Merlin, lie even when you're crying for them, or else Edwin was fratricide and Mordred is family and Morgana ...

Always, always they.

'Don't ask me that,' Arthur says.

'Your father's proud of you.'

Arthur spits, and bites his lip, clenches his fists, and that's when Merlin goes to his knees again. This time he doesn't stop, he pulls away everything in his way, and tastes the bile in the back of his own throat along with the thick taste-scent of Arthur, and pushes himself until his ears buzz from airloss and his eyes tear up. It's stupid, but he doesn't want this any other way. He wants to _take_ and claim and show Arthur that he can't always be in control, that sometimes the people underneath you can throw you sideways.

He mouths in closer, deeper, and it's humiliating and horrible what he's doing but then again it's _not_, because he's got Arthur completely at his mercy. This is such a position of power, such trust, such vulnerability from Arthur, it makes Merlin shiver and groan.

He thinks he's won this round until Arthur drags him away.

'No,' he says hoarsely. 'Not like that. You're better than that.'

'Did _he_ kneel?' _Did he submit to you, did he kneel for your blade? Were you controlled? Were you merciful?_

'Shut up, Merlin.'

'Did he die like a man? Did he _fight_?'

'He ... resisted, there was a struggle-'

'Tell me he died fighting.'

Arthur's chest is heaving, sweat-streaked through the shirt, and his wine-soaked breeches are tangled round his ankles. 'I can't,' he says, stiff-backed like he's giving a report to his father.

'They're human, you know.' It's not supposed to be a plea, but it is. Merlin wants Arthur to agree with him.

'They're criminals.' Still reporting. Still dignified, even half-undressed and half-hard under his ruined shirt. This isn't Arthur speaking to Merlin, this is Prince Arthur humouring a servant.

'They're not evil.'

'They do evil.' Arthur finally seems to remember his trousers, yanks them back up and reties them. He still won't meet Merlin's eye.

The silence lengthens.

'You don't believe that,' Merlin whispers.

'The law doesn't hinge on my beliefs.' The window seems to be fascinating Arthur, he leans against the tiny diamond-shaped panes and watches the empty, darkened courtyard like there's something down there. Merlin should leave, but instead he moves closer.

'Tell me how he died.'

'No.'

And closer. 'Damn you, tell me.'

Too close.

Arthur spins suddenly on his heel and slams Merlin back against the wall. 'Has it ever occured to you,' he asks, breathing harshly through his nose, 'That perhaps I don't wish to relive these shining little moments of my life? That I don't actually enjoy killing people who break the law? But it's the law, Merlin, and it will not be broken, not by you, or by me, or by anyone else. I am sworn, _sworn_ to uphold the law, and it doesn't matter what I think. Or what I feel,' he adds, and looks away. And that's it, then. Something crumples in Merlin's breast, some little hope.

'That's not the attitude your father wants.'

'If you mention my father once more, you will go to the stocks.'

'I saw you at the banquet. You're not his man any more.'

'Merlin-'

But Merlin is flying before the wind now. 'Bed me,' he says, harshly.

'Don't be ridiculous.' But Arthur's too close for Merlin not to feel that he twitches and fills at the thought.

'I'm not. I want you to. Bed me.' _Let me lick the blood off your hands_. He kisses Arthur then, as filthy as he can manage, teeth and stubble, and Arthur groans angrily and shoves himself closer.

The actual bed is too far, and too much like sanity anyway. Arthur's breeches are in Merlin's way and he practically tears them off, ignoring Arthur's attempts at doing likewise and letting his own drop.

Arthur gathers them both up into his hand and strokes and squeezes, faster faster faster. It's achingly good, and if this were real Merlin'd let it go like this, but it's not, this is just ... Merlin knows what he has to do, what he wants. How this has to be.

'Take me.' He says it grittily, has to force the words out through his teeth because his body just wants him to throw his head back and take what it's being given.

Arthur snarls, shoves one of Merlin's knees up and reaches back, but goes no further than a gentle touch, a stroke that has Merlin shivering involuntarily.

'Come on, you know I can take it, you know you want it,' he jibes when Arthur, fingers shaking with the need to be careful, hesitates. '_Do it._'

'The bed-'

'No.' _I want to die fighting._ 'Arthur, now, _now_-'

'What do you _want_ from me?' Arthur grits out when he's halfway there and Merlin hasn't stopped choking out instructions. It's too tight, too dry, Arthur's gently rocking back and forth, smearing in what wetness he can, trembling from shoulders to thighs to keep control, but that's not how Merlin wants it to go. He knows exactly what he's doing. He knows how to fight underhandedly, so he feels the stretch, that raw, hot, sore feeling, and pushes down anyway, telling good, honourable Arthur to just _hurt me, come on, I can take it, you know you want to - _ because he knows. He knows exactly what he's doing.

He's a poisoner, after all. It's just a means to an end, and he's never cared what he breaks - _rules, laws, people_\- as long as he keeps Arthur safe. He needs to make this point. He needs to show Arthur this choice. He has to know which way Arthur will turn.

Merlin waits until Arthur's watching his face, and _whispers_. He feels the magic burn in him, and has to smile. There's a flood of wet right where they need it, and Arthur's shock lets Merlin shove himself down, both of them moaning at the sensation. He lets himself believe, just for one glorious second, that this can be.

'Merlin, what was-'

'I confess my sorcery,' Merlin says, and that's it. The rest of his life, stretching out into its last few minutes, Arthur inside him where Merlin's always wanted him, needed him, and Arthur's hand tightens spasmodically on Merlin's shoulder, on his throat. He pulls out, leaving Merlin feeling almost bereft, and Merlin can't get enough air, the world swirls-

_I wanted to die on my feet ..._

He doesn't know who he's punishing any more, doesn't know what he's poisoning ... This isn't the confession he always envisioned - saving Arthur from some danger, sacrificing himself in public because he has no choice - this is tawdry and cheap and personal, witlessly personal, and he decided to do this now when he could have walked away; there's no-one around to see it, no-one to stop Arthur from doing what he thinks is right ...

Everything goes dark.

***

He wakes up, clothed and cold, sitting in Arthur's chair. Arthur is once again by the window. Grey light is filtering in, it must be nearly dawn. Merlin didn't expect to see it.

'Arthur?'

'Your virtue, such as remains, is unsullied,' Arthur says coldly. He doesn't turn around. 'That was a filthy trick to pull, Merlin.'

'It wasn't-'

'Get out.'

'If you're going to kill me, do it now,' Merlin demands, breathlessly. He slides out of the chair onto the floor, in supplication, in suggestion, in surrender.

Arthur wanted that, once. _Do you know how to walk on your knees?_

Now, Arthur doesn't say a word, but his face is tight and drawn with anger as he drags Merlin out through the door. His breeches are marked with damp darkness where wet has trickled through - the stain is the last thing Merlin sees of Arthur before the door slams.

***

Life goes on, for Merlin and Arthur at least. Arthur doesn't speak to Merlin for two miserable weeks, during which a band of druids make their way peacefully, surreptitiously and stealthily through Camelot.

Unfortunately they are not stealthy enough. Neither is the hedgewitch caught selling frog's bones to lovesick teenage girls. Neither is the bald-headed knight from Brittany whom Merlin catches outside Arthur's bedchamber with a dagger and a stone that glows a dangerous blood-red.

Merlin keeps the stone, after he uses it, and wonders when he became a killer. Arthur takes the dagger and slits the corpse's throat with stone-faced precision, and is hailed as an example of constant vigilance. He doesn't stay for the feast in his honour, and he dismisses Merlin as well.

Merlin washes Arthur's clothes, and doesn't count the bloodstains. Doesn't tally them up against Uther's speeches, or Arthur's patrol days, or columns of smoke out past the castle walls, or days when the headsman is sent for.

Merlin washes Arthur's sheets, and doesn't think about the other stains, or what they correlate with.

And when Arthur stalks into Merlin's room in the small hours of the morning and hauls him out of his bed before dropping to his knees, Merlin doesn't think about that either. Instead he drags Arthur back up to his feet and vanishes both their sets of nightclothes.

This time they make it to the bed, the mattress hard as nails beneath them as they rut, as Arthur ghosts his fingernails over Merlin's scalp and down his back, as Merlin wraps his legs around Arthur's thighs and pulls him down into a sweat-soaked and glorious embrace. He doesn't think about what they're doing, he just _does_ \- claws at Arthur as if he can pull him inside his skin, uses his fingers and mouth to bring Arthur to gasping proximity before getting the tables turned on him and finding himself pushed face-first into the bed with Arthur behind him, very gently spreading him open, touching him softly because he knows how much Merlin would prefer him to be rough.

Merlin doesn't have to think to know this is right, filthy and good and everything loyalty really means.

They're not allowed to. But that never stopped them (_Mortaeus flowers, Ealdor, Morgause_) before.


End file.
